


Thankful That You're Mine

by empires



Category: Supernatural, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Derek, Crossover, M/M, Male Posturing, i even liked teen wolf, i liked jackson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-15
Updated: 2016-05-15
Packaged: 2018-06-08 14:59:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6859723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/empires/pseuds/empires
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>prompt: [crossover] dean/derek [supernatural] - alpha-y standoff. dean and derek in a growly, gruff, scruffy faced murderous eyed standoff. bonus points if their little bottom boys (sammy and jackson baha) are in any way involved. doesn't have to be sexual, just the tension is good!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thankful That You're Mine

**Author's Note:**

> originally posted in 2012 on livejournal.

Others may be distracted by certain death hounding at the heels but Sam found himself more likely to survive. The adrenaline that flooded his system triggered his heart sot that it tricked his brain into firing extra synapses so that he could think clearly He could focus beyond the ravenous creature with mouths lined three rows deep of razor sharp teeth that complimented piano wire claws.

The only way he would make it is if he ran relaxed. He knew how; deep breaths, shoulders back, press against the wounded side lightly, try not to drip everywhere, but he stumbled up the hill anyway. One third of his brain tried to fix the crumbling ends of their plan. Another third is chanting Dean, Dean, where is my fucking brother? A flash of memories kicked to the part of the brain not focused on the fact that he was bleeding heavily.

Marshall County’s track and field coach had found thirteen-year-old Sam Winchester running strong and steady during the Presidential fitness test. He had wanted Sam on the team and Sam wanted something for himself. After spending ten minutes on the health benefits and lifelong survival training a semester of cross country could do for a body, he’d been able to convince his dad to take him to the physical so he could join the team. Training had been long, the first race even longer, and he hated life for two weeks. But Winchesters never quit. They never backed down. Everything fell together during his sixth race. Mentally, physically, and emotionally prepared, Sam fired up the course. He’d made steady gains from pack to pack, and when the time came to make his big move, Sam slipped behind the team captain and the rest of the varsity runners easily.

He’d received a ribbon, fourth place, but the best prize was the way his dad whistled at the edge of the ropes, and the way Dean shouted, “just like a fucking jack rabb—shit, I mean. A jack rabbit with those long legs, Sammy, go, go!” After the first time when he hid in the shadows until all the teams, parents, and school officials had left waiting for the familiar rumble to tell him he’s going home, Sam had stopped wanting. It’d happen if it’d happen. And it happened. They had been the biggest surprise, not placing, not the cheers, not the way Sasha Mattingly waited at the end of the line to congratulate him. Dean saw him through to the end. The least Sam could do is return the favor, win the race.

And just like that Sam’s found himself running relaxed. His jaw unclenched, his breathing stutters to something less labored. The pain in his side subsided to dull pangs. All he had to do was get back to the Impala so he could pull together the ends of Dean’s half-baked plan and save his brother.

The trees gradually thinned and at last Sam saw a glow marking the wood line. He could do this. He could. Or at least, he would have if not for the treacherous forest that surrounds Beacon Hills.

Sam allowed himself a cautious sigh of relief. “Almost,” he muttered. “Almost,” and then, “Holy—“

The level plain Sam had been flying across disappeared into a sharp decline. Rolling down over dangerous rocks, brambles, and limbs, Sam landed in a painful heap at the foot of the hill he’d raced up. His last conscious thought was this: he’d save his brother.

Save him so he could throttle him.

* * *

 

After landing against the same tree three times in a row, Jackson was grateful for the boom of shotgun fire that echoing through the night. The fact that gunfire not directed at him made for a welcome break instead of a terrifying event like it had six weeks ago was not lost on him. How fucked up was that anyway? He’d cry for his lost innocence if he could find the time for tears.

Derek’s stalled him with a hand to his chest. “You’re not going to follow me?”

“For the last time my name isn’t McCall. I’m not an idiot. You can go into the middle of a shootout and see if it’s the Argents. I’ll go over there.” He pointed in the direction they had arrived. “And meet you back at the point.”

“If you see anyone—“

“Keep my head down. Keep all of my bodily fluids to myself. You’ll find me later.” Jackson recited his daily mantra lazily. “Not weak like one of your fail-pack either.”

“Don’t call them that,” Derek growled, teeth bared.

Jackson could almost ignore the growl, almost, but Derek’s disapproval slid down to his gut and sat with cement like certainty. 

It was an chilling feeling; one he wished would disappear like the instinctual wolf traits he’d been fortunate enough to miss. He might not be as weak as the fail-pack, but he was still too weak to resist an Alpha. And he knew this weakness would last forever, warring states of disappointment and guilt and the knowledge that this wasn’t him, this wasn’t what he wanted to feel, that he can’t even fight it. He couldn’t even bring his head up to meet Derek’s gaze. The realization brought fist-clenching shame every time fevering all the places that haven’t been frozen over. A frustrated whine escaped from the back of his throat.

Only then did Derek’s hand move leaving the cold to recede slowly like ice from the shore.

Jackson dared a quick glance to Derek’s face before muttering, “You made them.”

Normally Jackson enjoyed the last word, especially if his observations were clever and cutting, but Hale took off toward the second round of fire without a backward glance.

One of the many things that made him so uncomfortable with the were-heritage is how an Alpha tuned into others, even those outside the pack. Knowing your own limitations was one thing. Having someone you could barely stand let alone trust aware of them was another. That someone using them against you on a constant basis was horrifying; feeling it terrifying. The way Derek knew what made him tick, the best way to embarrass him, the quickest way to put him back in line, he hated it. To be that helpless, to be that open, vulnerable to another person all the time, having them in control was… It was something he couldn’t want.

No one should know another person that well. No one should have that kind of power, not without giving something up in return. It didn’t feel like Derek gave him anything, but Jackson had to give everything whenever the wolf skulked about the edges of his life like a tall, brooding shadow. It was ridiculous because Derek Hale has such an obvious presence—Jackson can still feel his palm hot against his chest—but just waltzed around town like he wasn’t kidnapping kids for a joyride in his Camero, like he hadn’t been wanted for murder, like he didn’t have a secret that could change the world, like he wasn’t everywhere except for when Jackson needed him most.

No, it’s Jackson who gave up his time and his body and now his money. He wiggled a finger through a new hole in the sleeve of his leather jacket bought only three days ago. He got it because of the change in weather and not because he was suddenly into fine leather goods and hair gel like the rest of Hale’s pack.

The pack to which he didn’t even belong.

Jackson kicked at a loose pile of leaves and nearly tumbled down the next hill, cursing under his breath. The eastern part of the woods was dangerous. They called it the Hollows because the ground dropped at odd intervals as if giants trampled through the foothills creating sudden bowls and ravines where there should be gently rolling hills. There were plenty of rescue missions during the tourist season where people wandered from the marked paths and into hidden ditches.

Jackson skid to a stop at the bottom of the next ridge. He looked left; he looked right, closed his eyes and opened them again.

The body was still there.

When no one crashed out of the bushes shouting that help was on the way, Jackson realized he would have to be the one to assist. As someone who has had his fair share of things jumping out and slashing at him, Jackson approached it cautiously with a heavy branch hand. Several key things leaped out about the body at once. First, and most importantly, the guy was huge. He was the kind of long-haired stud that packed muscles the natural way—chopping wood and then eating into a bowl of milk for breakfast. His shirt was shredded exposing every single muscle Jackson had ever labored over and a few he’d never learned in Human Anatomy. The last bit of actual fabric clung to what appears to be a wellspring of dark blood. Finally, the guy was breathing.

Maybe that was the most important thing.

There wasn’t enough anger in him right now that he could focus to carry this mountain man back to town—and it’d have to be into town. He couldn’t even fit this guy into his car if he wanted to and.... He brought the truck out tonight. Jackson sighed and scratched the back of his head.

“Hey man, hey.” Jackson nudged the mountain man’s shoulder with the toe of his boots. “Can you hear me?” He received a soft moan in response. He really didn’t want this at all. He refused to think about the last time he walked into the hospital, the shaking, the tears, the blood. Most nights it’s the only thing he can see, a limp body and all that blood that seeped down his arms and chest. “I’m gonna. Just. Carry you to my truck. I might have to put you in the back though. It’ll be safer.” He had ties. Plus it’d be easy to clean later.

He tilted the guy against his shoulder and reached for the knees that were just within reach—seriously how tall was this freak—when he felt fingertips curling into him. There was pained moan right against his cheek.

“Dean?”

“Uh, no.” Jackson settled back on his heels only to find they guy staring at him with glassy eyes, pupils blown out leaving nothing but a sliver of green at the edges. He looked way too calm right now resembling teammates just after receiving a hard knock. Jackson pushed back a hank of dark hair then wagged a finger in front of his nose. The eyes followed him steadily enough. “I’m gonna help you. Can you talk to me? Tell me what happened?”

The guy only stared. Great.

“Let’s just get out of here.” Jackson tried to stand and that wasn’t going to work. The guy was the exact weight of a moose. “Hey, can you walk?”

The mountain man decided to look him over instead of doing something useful like answering him or using his own freakish giant legs to carry them both up the hill. The stare went on for miles. Jackson began to feel even more uncomfortable as he’s cataloged by a stranger, compared against something else, someone else. Jackson saw the moment when all the pieces added together forming another standard he couldn’t measure up to.

“Look, man, can you stand or not?” Maybe was the flat tone or the rising disgust in Jackson’s eyes that to shook him out of it. Or maybe it was his own disappointment.

“Sorry, sorry. You don’t look like. But you kinda.” He tried to sit up and crumpled forward clutching at his side. A wet red palm lifted up into the light. “I need something to just. Staunch the bleeding.”

The guy was practically naked from the waist up and Jackson didn’t think he can tear denim right now. The only emotion Jackson would admit to feeling was mild annoyance at the expectant look he’s receiving.

“What?”

“Do you have something I can use?”

“Nothing that I want to get blood on.” Jackson took the shocked look head on. “Do I look like I shop at Target?”

“I’m going to die because this kid can’t give up a scarf. That is really insulting.”

“Fine.” Jackson yanked his scarf and together they fumbled a bandage in record time despite the guy trying to instruct, lecture, and warn him at the same time. Jesus. He’d had enough of people trying to teach him tonight.

“I need help,” he was saying, “There’s some kind of animal out here. It attacked me. My brother is still out there.”

“Did you get bit?”

“Huh?”

Jackson didn’t know what to make of the blend of confusion and interest sliding across the handsome face. “It’s a simple question. Did. You. Get. Bit?”

He looked down to his side and back to Jackson curiously. “Just scratched I think.”

Jackson sighed, relieved. “Okay. My truck is at the end of this ridge. There is really no way I can carry you out that far and if that thing is nearby, we need to get moving.”

“Thing?” He’s being studied again but the eyes are definitely focused now.

“Yeah. A cougar, probably. The news keeps talking about how they’re making a comeback and keep. Attacking.” Jackson fit his hand over the guy’s oversized paw to help keep the pressure steady. “Ranging outside of their habitats. Urban sprawl. You know. They found one in Connecticut a few weeks back.”

“Cougar. Right. Look, kid. If you know something, tell me. My brother’s out there with that thing.” There was a familiar thread of authority in the guy’s voice that is so like Allison’s dad it’s fucking scary. The only difference was the genuine kindness mixed in, like he knew something was up and wanted to help and worry too. Maybe he had a brother and he really was out there.

Unfortunately, guy didn’t know the second, unofficial motto of the Hills: trust no one.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t even know you—“

“My name’s Sam.”

“Sam.” No other response to the earnestness in his voice when revealing information that helped nothing whatsoever right now. “So, we’re lifting you up on three. Ready?”

Sam flattened his feet after testing the grip around his waist. “On three.”

“One. Two. Thre—“

A dull explosion set fire to the eastern sky.

“What the fu—“

“Dean.” Sam shouted. In one burst of panic, Sam dragged them both upright and started racing to the hill. Jackson scrambled at his side as they fought their way up damp leaves and the whip of young branches. The burst of strength faded quickly sending Jackson and Sam down together, hips and feet colliding, with the slow crush of mating glaciers. Sam landed on one knee panting from the effort. Jackson felt a little awed and a lot more angry now because they on the wrong side of the hill.

“What are you doing, man? We’re trying to get out of here—”

The night—hellbent on preventing Jackson from completing sentences—interrupted once more with the sound of a high-pitched shriek chased by another shotgun blast. The sound echoed wildly loud and eerily artificial, doctored like the sci-fi flicks Danny and L—Danny liked where aliens stalked unsuspecting humans. The cry came again, closer this time and nothing like Jackson had heard before. The short bark following that sound was familiar though. Jackson wasn’t sure what was more worrying, that he recognized it or that Derek was also coming closer. The last thing he needed was another reminder that along with the guns, Argents, the Incredible Sam, his lost brother and exploding forest fires, ran Derek Hale. Argents, guns, and firepower were a combination best filed under very bad. If they found him… if they saw any of them….

They had to get out of there and now.

“As much as I appreciate you taking us back into danger, we can’t just sit here.” Jackson tried to stand but found himself thwarted by the heavy lean of a giant. “Dude, seriously. We can’t stay here.”

“I.” Sam groped for purchase but each passing second dragged him further down. “Don’t think I can walk.”

Jackson wanted to snarl at him, tell him to concentrate and just fucking do it. “You got to, man. You just. I don’t want to leave you.”

Sam looked at him with something like pity. His mouth opened to say something noble. Jackson easily read the lines all over his face, sad, noble, and sacrificing. If he looked closer he could find it was the story of Sam’s existence. Then Sam’s expression shifted from focused to horrified to determination. Jackson saw a shape reflected in his eyes growing larger by the second. Sam screamed, “Look out!”

For weeks before Jackson approached Derek, he would lie in bed imagining what it would be like to change, to become something different, to become something new, to burst free from the skin he wore and the life into which he could never quite fit. He never discovered what it might be. The wolf’s bane swimming through his veins made sure of it. He’d guess it was similar though to the prenatural spike of adrenaline the Alpha’s bite granted him.

Jackson’s heart raced, sweat beading at the nape of his neck and temples, his hands shook as the rush of awareness came over him. Everything magnified, his sight, his vision, the feeling of Sam’s body trying to swing in front of him, tensing to accept a blow.

As if Jackson needed protection. He was co-captain of the lacrosse team.

Senses guiding him, instinct faster than anticipation, Jackson slammed his elbow backwards. It sank into wet flesh with a sickening squish. He rolled forward with the momentum just as Sam’s hand caught a skeletal wrist attached to a set of claws that probably doubled as axe blades on scary creature off season. Jackson pushed and Sam pulled until they slammed the creature to the ground. It screamed its rage into the air as it struggled, skin molten with gray whorls and bright yellow eyes. The creature squirmed to standing then slipped on the damp leaves. It bounced down several rocks to the bottom of the hill.

Jackson surged to his feet carrying Sam with him. He hefted him carefully before setting out in a run.

“That’s not a mountain lion,” said Sam calmly, as if he were princess-carried through the woods after being attacked by supernatural shit on a regular basis.

“You think!” Jackson’s ear twitched with the faint sound of movement, a whoosh of air. “Oh fuck,” he shouted. “It’s behind—“

The ground rushed up to meet him.

This time Jackson attempted to twist Sam around and protect him. It was adrenaline after all, adrenaline and his new fucked up biology forcing Jackson to place his body between the creature and some guy he didn’t even know. Sam rolled into a slight depression which was good. He was safe while Jackson dodged the first sweep of claws remembering to keep his eyes up, head down, Jackson, that’s the way. Look for an opening.

The third time he dodged easily having found a pattern; right shoulder, body, left claw, left should body, right claw. Jackson slid in from the opposite direction, foot planting into what would be something like a hip if whatever it was even had bones—it felt like pushing into Jell-O—and kicked.

“Holy shit,” he breathed as it crashed back into the darkness a second time.

There was that sound again, louder than before, an enraged shriek that stirred every hair on the back of his neck.

“There!”

Jackson followed the bloody tips of Sam’s fingers up. He bounced to the balls of his feet ready as the thing unleashed from the trees. The claws whipped down faster than before. Haymakers that’s what he’d remember the claws as, haymakers, because they sliced his chest into thin blades. It was the hardest he’d dropped to the ground ever, harder than being sideswiped by #32 Santorini from Mission Creek, faster than the first and only time he managed to best Hale.

“Kid!” Sam sounded upset, worried even, and then Jackson felt the pain crossing his skin a second time. He curled onto his side and tried to find air. He wasn’t prepared. He was still weak. Wasn’t going to save anyone, not even himself.

The creature stalked closer, shifting between the moonlight and shadows. It swept those haymakers down, maw opened with rows and rows of teeth. He’s sideswiped again, this time by Sam who seized against him then rolled, pinning Jackson beneath him like a young soldier at the bunker, huddled and unsure.

They had to stop doing this, thought Jackson, dazed and short of breath from the crush of Sam’s body long and hard and on top of him and pushed until Sam slid off with a grunt. Neither of them would make it out alive if they didn’t stop trying to save each other.

The creature reared above ready to strike again, yellow eyes wicked and blood dripping from its fangs. Its scream turned into a squawk that ended half a yard away after being hit by a blur of leather with the speed of a super duty truck. The two bodies sprung apart and the creature stumbled back as Derek's angry howl struck like a blow.

It pained Jackson to know how relieved he was was at the sight of Derek’s back. He cut the feeling by scrambling over to Sam. More blood, bright red and sticking to them both. He can’t tell who received the worst of it.

“Are you okay,” was the first words out of Sam’s mouth when they both struggle upright.

“Yeah. Come on.” Neither could completely ignore the clash of bodies, but they had to get up, out of there.

The creature raised both of its arms seeming to grow wider, like a bear waving for attention. It stepped toward Derek then stumbled back clutching at the shoulder. Jackson hunched down, hands at his ears, looking for the source of the gunshot. The scent of gunpowder thickened the clearing. Another shot fired, another waver in the creature’s resolve to cut them all down. It leaped backwards running on two gangly legs. Derek made to give chase when the shotgun sounded a third time.

The pocket of earth smoked gently at Derek’s feet.

“What the hell?” Jackson shouted.

And then another body walked cut the shadows like a knife. He stood tall with the barrel of the rifle promising more to come. He circled around slowly coming to stand before Sam and Jackson, blocking a direct assault.

“You okay, Sam?”

“Been better.”

“Looked worse, though. You and the kid, get behind me.”

Sam stumbled twice in Jackson’s arms but they managed to stand again.

Above them branches snapped. Derek and the man who must be Sam’s brother—Dean— snapped their gazes upwards. Circles moved within circles; Derek widening his steps as he watched the shadows play, Dean unwavering as he reloaded with a snap of his wrist, and Jackson and Sam at the edge, wounded and weak.

“Which one is it, Sam? Which one is the shifter?”

“What do you mean which one?” Jackson watched as Sam’s brother calmly rotated his gun between Derek and the thing. “Sam?”

“Yellow eyes,” said Sam. The world spun back into motion at his words.

The creature leapt down. Sam and Jackson reached to cover their ears at the scream spiraling at them. Derek again intercepted it, twisted and threw it back into the air. The gun’s nozzle followed the arch for half a second before cracking two shots that kicked the creature back into the gloom. They had to have hit but making that kind of shot at this time of night impressed Jackson as much as it scared him. What scared him more was the way Dean immediately placed Hale back into his sights.

Who the hell were these guys if not hunters?

Derek stepped into the weak strand of moonlight, face human and impassive in that blank way Jackson hated. He lorded his power when he looked like that, face impassive. His eyes jittered wild and red until he took another step. His palms were open but his posture radiated action instead of worry, strength instead of fear.

“What about red eyes, Sam? He in on this?”

“I don’t know.”

“He’s not,” Jackson dragged them both forward until he couldn’t anymore. Sam looked at him again, into him, brows knitting faster than a granny’s hands. He could see the clues looping together in complex strands. Whatever answer he was arriving at Jackson knew it was the wrong one. “He’s not, Sam. He’s not.”

“Whoever you think he is… is not there anymore. He’s become a shifter,” Sam said, explaining the world in terms too simple for the ones Jackson knew.

“He’s not.”

Dean popped the gun back together, reloaded and dangerous. “Kid, I hate to tell you but that is not your friend.”

“Tell me something I didn’t know,” Jackson muttered. “But look, he’s not a shifter. He’s not a shifter. Right?” He didn’t get a response, at least not a verbal one but Derek’s curiosity and anger flowed to him. Outwardly, Derek merely brooded in front of hunters.

“He’s not going to answer you. He’s not there anymore. That thing.” Sam touched his fingers to his forehead looking confused and heavier than before. He looked like Jackson felt being pressed upon by Derek’s emotion. “That thing must have got to him.”

“He’s not a thing. He’s not. He’s.” Jackson grit his teeth because it never sounded real in his own mind. He could never it to say out loud. The sound of it hanging in the air was too much. “He’s like a. A werewolf.”

His revelation was met with an intense flash of green eyes and a dark chuckle.

“It’s true. It’s true. Tell them.” He snapped at Derek who seemed content in baring his teeth. Jackson swallowed a whimper, heard an aborted whine from Sam’s chest, the scrape of Dean’s foot stepping forward. “What the hell? Whatever it is you’re doing just stop and. And tell them.”

Fuck, Jackson thought before a wave of disapproval slammed into him. He stumbled along with Sam who looked paler than before.

“He’s doing this?” The shotgun cocked. “Then I’ll end it.”

Jackson moved before he realized what’s happening. He covered the few yards between them swiftly leaving Sam listing behind his brother fragile as a sapling. He didn’t have enough time to process his actions, the whys or the hows of why he needed to put himself between Hale and the hunter. He just did it, stepped in front of a hunter’s gun for a guy who couldn’t even give him the one thing he needed. There was no loyalty between them, not even trust, but a string wounded them both, tying them together in a strange way. He couldn’t let it alone and he couldn’t see it ended until he had exactly what he wanted.

“He’s not—“

“I’m not what you think.” Derek closed his fingers around Jackson’s shoulder and pulled until all Jackson could see was Derek’s back again, safe and solid. “And I won’t be a danger until you threaten me or my own.”

“Is that so?” Dean’s mouth curled into a hint of a grin. “And what if you hurt what’s mine?”

The earth rocked beneath them as the weight of Alpha crashed into the clearing. Jackson curled against his back with a huff.

“There’s nothing I wouldn’t do to protect them,” said Derek. They eyed each other for one long, torturous second, then Derek relaxed, fractionally. “You going to be here much longer?”

“Got some unfinished business. Won’t take a day or so. You?”

“This is my home.”

“Well alright then.” Dean finally tilted his gun to the ground. "Hey. Hey, pretty boy," he said firmly and that snapped the Jackson’s attention to him. He smiled in the clouded face of teen angst. "Keep an eye on your boyfriend here. He’s the kind that'll get you hurt."

Jackson paled, flushed, and then paled again. "He’s not my boyfriend."

“Right.” Dean’s voice dripped with disbelief and maybe Jackson’s cheek rested against Derek’s shoulder but that wasn’t his fault. “Doesn’t mean he’s not trouble kid. Doesn’t mean you won’t get hurt.”

Derek crossed his arms with a squeak of worn leather. Jackson could only imagine the look on his face. His own flush deepened aware of his weakness showing to everyone. Just another part of Derek Hale’s fail-pack.

Then they’re gone, strangers swallowed back into the forest.

“Don’t do that again,” Derek said when it was only the two of them. Derek still projected, dizzying Jackson so badly he had to reach out and hold on just to stay upright.

“Don’t. What?”

“You put yourself between me and a gun, Jackson. That was a stupid move. I want you to remember that next time you crack on McCall’s idiocy. Don’t do it again.”

“Trust me, I won’t.”

Derek was in his face like always, arrogance dripping from him when he reached for the Jackson’s nape. He squeezed until Jackson’s mouth dropped open and a quiet gasp tumbled out. It always felt like the first time when Derek’s claws sank into his flesh and Derek backed him into the lockers, his body fevered and strange-eyed, staring down at him, breathing him in….

“I won’t, man. Fuck.”

Derek had already moved on to the lines stripping his chest. His fingertips felt like ice where skin and sinew had begun knitting back together slowly. Jackson was never a guy to do anything slow but his stupid body, his weakness dictated the pace. Derek leaned forward and stroked his tongue up the long cuts. It was wet and hot, the movement slow and Jackson closed his eyes, struggling to stay upright.

After the final cut closed, Derek wiped the saliva from around his mouth. He cupped Jackson’s cheek. “Hey,” he said, roughly. “You got more of these?”

Jackson blinked slowly as if coming up from a deep sleep. “On my back.”

The world swung crazily, jacket tugged, shirt ripped again while Derek surveyed his wounds. It was too personal, too intimate, especially when Derek licked at the pale scars at the back of his neck to distract him. Jackson drew a harsh breath in protest only to be nipped again and again. And then Derek began the healing process all over again, slow and thorough, until Jackson twisted against the pain, clutching at the hard plans of Derek’s body and the sirens sounded in the distance.

"Come on. Let's get you home."


End file.
